Empty Bottles
by Cairnsy
Summary: The defeat of Dartz leads only to more problems for the remaining members of Doom, and for one of them in particular. Varon and Raphael centric, but with a fair amount of Amelda as well.


Summary: The defeat of Dartz leads only to more problems for the remaining members of Doom, one of them in particular. Varon and Raphael centric, but with a fair amount of Amelda as well. 

Notes: Takes place about a month after the ending of the Doom saga, at the beach house where Varon woke up. Spoilers for the Doom saga. 

**Empty Bottles.**

I need another drink. 

I never used to be much of a drinker, and truth be told, I'm still not. I never really saw the point of alcohol, but then, I really never saw the point of anything that wasn't concerned with the basic process of living. One foot in front of the other, slowly trying to walk away from the guilt, the loss. What more was there to life than trying to make my way down that path, even when faced with the fact the path went nowhere and was simply an endless loop? 

Dartz created that loop, solidifying it with some false purpose. Now, with him gone and everything suddenly uncertain, he has broken it. I don't know which scares me more – my endless loop or the possibility of straying from its path. 

Another drink. Definitely. 

The bach is nice. Of course it is. Dartz had the money, the _power_ to own anything he wanted: a beach house on the coast, a villa in France. The lives of three young men. The decor really is lovely, even if those of us who now inhabit the place feel vaguely as though we are trespassing in such perfection. Wooden floors everywhere, and ocean views to die for. The kitchen is state of the art, and the wine glass I refill flows with an expensive vintage that has a name that I can't pronounce. 

"It's a good thing you don't like beer, because Varon has run off with it all." Amelda's voice distracts me, and I have to abandon my thoughts with the not quite convincing conclusion that it is said See-ian-ta. 

"What are you doing up, Amelda? It's almost 1am." It's a stupid question to ask, and he dignifies it only with a raised eyebrow. Even now, I do not know exactly what to with this – child? Adult? – before me, we certainly would never have met if it had not been for Dartz. One moment a petulant teenager, the next a far too knowing adult, he both surpasses and falls short. I will never quite understand him, and that is all I am exactly sure of. 

But he is doing … better. Not well, far from brilliant. After the last year, 'better' is all I think any of us can aim for. He no longer hides behind the frosty barrier quite so often, and his spats with Varon are not so likely anymore to end with either of them dead. 

"I need a drink." Amelda's unknowing echo of my earlier thoughts brings a ghost of a smile to my lips, and I step aside to allow him access to the fridge. Amelda doesn't drink as such, preferring 'exotic' sodas and fruit juices to hard alcohol. He told me once that alcohol was something that had been easy enough to access during the war that had stolen from him his childhood, but that he never tasted anything quite as sweet or as wonderful as the caffeinated, sugary drinks of the States. 

I made sure that, on our third day here, the fridge was brimming with it. 

"Varon had another nightmare." Amelda finally says, vaguely annoyed. I'm surprised that Amelda even broaches the subject, as, out of the three of us, he is the least likely to worry about someone else. He is used to not caring, and that he is practically being forced to be concerned about someone such as Varon obviously irks him to no end. "I couldn't sleep with all his tossing and mumbling. It's as inconsiderate as hell, I don't see why he doesn't just stay out on the couch." There is a hard look on his face that is daring me to contradict him, but only if I don't value all of my fingers. "He ends up there most nights anyway." 

If Amelda is slowly getting better, then Varon is balancing delicately on the thin edge of disaster that Amelda vacated. A month. We have been here almost a month, and the nightmares come almost nightly. When we lived in one of Dartz' penthouses before his defeat against Yugi and his friends, Varon had rarely woken up in such a violent manner. In fact, it was often up to an infuriated Amelda to force the younger boy from his slumber, threatening to not tape some silly cartoon the pair of them loved if Varon didn't get up that instant. It wasn't that there weren't hints, but we all had bad nights on occasion. 

During our first week here I was stupid enough to confront him once about the nightmares, but had received only a deathly glare that rivalled Amelda's best in return. Message received loud and clear: Varon didn't want to talk about it. But this was going too far, and there seemed to be no promise of an upcoming ending. We'd survived. In a twisted sort of way, we'd triumphed. And yet, Varon is sinking now as he had never done before during our Doom days, it makes no sense. 

Varon is unlike Amelda; he wears his emotions on his sleeve. It bothers me beyond belief that I cannot understand what is going through his head anymore, when it has always been so obvious in the past. 

"He woke up about an hour ago. I let him know what a prick he was for keeping me up, not that Varon really gives a damn about that kind of thing." He says it without a hint of remorse, but that Amelda and I are even having this conversation speaks volumes in itself. "Muttered somewhat about needing some air, three dozen beer bottles and something that I couldn't quite translate but that I'm sure is highly illegal, and took off." 

"On his bike?" God, that kid is going to get himself killed, one of these days. What worries me is that might exactly be his point. 

"Not as far as I know. That thing makes enough noise that I think it would have drawn even you from your sulking." Reflecting can hardly be called sulking, can it? Perhaps my thoughts had been rather depressing while I had been in my room with my previous glass of wine and distant memories as company, but Amelda and Varon are not the only ones in need of putting back together after all of this. I may be doing better than the other two at finding all the different pieces, but I'm still looking for that elusive 'well', also. 

"Hmph." 

We simply stand there then, Amelda calmly drinking his fizzy drink while I watch on with apparent disinterest, trying to decide the best course of action from here. All I know is that this cannot continue, but I'm not sure what to do with this 'wealth' of knowledge. 

With a final gulp, Amelda is done, and the glass is abandoned. He studies me with narrowed eyes, and I wonder exactly who is this man/child (for I still cannot decide) that he can affect me in a way that no other can, simply with a pensive glance. 

"Downstairs, front balcony." He finally says, turning to head out of the kitchen and no doubt back in the direction of the room he shares with Varon. It is painfully obvious that Amelda has made my decision for me. He has surprised me this morning, and it seems as though he is not quite done yet, as he stops at the door, not bothering to turn around. "Remember though, Raphael, that as much as he may look like him, he is not your brother. Do not treat him as though he is some innocent child that merely needs a hug." It is not so much a mockery but a barely concealed threat. Do not hurt Varon simply because you cannot deal with the situation without seeing Eric in his place. They are his final parting words, and by the time they have sunk in, Amelda has gone. 

So many pieces that still need to be put back together. 

I take the untouched wineglass with me as I softly pad down the stairs, well aware of the noise that one makes on wooden floors. I'm not sure why I seek to be so quiet, given that Amelda has certainly not yet had the chance to return to his room, let alone fall asleep. Perhaps I am simply frightened of scaring Varon away. 

He is there, as Amelda had so unemotionally stated. The lounge light is off, leaving him only to be lit by a pale moonlight that does nothing to sooth harsh lines or sagging shoulders. Leaning against the railing in pyjamas two size too big for him, he looks achingly lost, and I'm totally perplexed over exactly what it is Amelda wants me to do. 

"I thought you were in bed." Even though I have been almost completely silent, it is Varon who speaks first, never once breaking his distant gaze across the beach before him. It is hardly an invitation, but there is no overt hostility there, either. Within moments I am at his side, eyes searching for whatever holds Varon's interest so much that he has yet to meet my gaze. There is much to admire from our position, even in the early hours of the morning. The moonlight treats the beach far better than it does Varon, making the golden white sand shimmer in its path, and the diamond crests of the soft waves appear hypnotically entrancing. 

"I thought you were, as well." 

I am not, even at my best, a great conversationalist. This is going to go nowhere fast unless I somehow find a way to break through Varon's defences, or convince him that to talk about this is for the best, or- 

"Do you know what I love about the beach?" He asks suddenly, one arm gesturing out towards the sand. "Is that it represents freedom." 

- let Varon lead. I wonder how many surprises I will deal with before the sun finally rises. 

"The ocean by itself is nothing," he continues, and I'm not quite sure he is still talking to me, or himself. "If anything, without the sand, it is a trap of its own. But the combination of the two? Freedom. It seems to stretch forever, doesn't it?" With that last thought, he turns to me, lavender eyes waiting for an answer. 

"Everyone has a different concept of freedom." Varon snorts at my reply, and for a moment he is far too much like Amelda for his own good. "I find my freedom within the house, with the people there." 

"I wasn't being philosophical, Raphael." With a scowl he turns back to the view, and I only then notice the beer bottle in his hand, the case at his feet. "I don't believe in all that crap." 

It suits Varon, that he sees freedom in something as simplistic and uncomplicated as a beach. From what little Dartz ever told my about Varon's past – Varon himself rarely talks about it – clutter and mayhem were frequent guests. There is something peaceful about the empty stretch of sand before us, and I can see how someone who was brought up in the claustrophobic and violent world of the streets could find such a place an oasis. 

"Did you ever go to the beach as a kid?" It's far from subtle, but I'm hardly a subtle guy. Varon's answering short, harsh laugh is enough of an answer on its own. 

"Go to bed, Raphael." There is a tiredness in Varon's voice that comes not only from his lack of sleep. "I know what you want, but tough. I don't want to talk." 

"Who says I want to talk?" I take a small sip of my wine, watching silently as he nervously takes a swig of his own drink. "Perhaps I just want to-" What does one do at 1am in the morning? "- look at the scenery." Oh, _brilliant_ save, that. Even Varon doesn't buy it, but the small smile that twitches at the corner of his lips is almost worth the embarrassment. Almost. 

"Look at the scenery, huh? Well, it's not exactly like I can stop you from doing that." This time Varon is more confident as he downs several more gulps of his drink. The bottle looks so incredibly out of place, held loosely in a hand that is housed in sleeves that are far too long, being studied by violent eyes that are much too young. 

"How old are you exactly, Varon?" How many has he had? Varon doesn't seem drunk, but Amelda had said he'd been gone for an hour. 

"Well, the scenery didn't keep your interest for very long, did it?" he replies sardonically. There is an added moment or two before he answers my actual question. "16." 

"Then you're too young to be drinking." It's an automatic response, and if Amelda was here, I'm sure he'd be sending one of his death glares in my direction. Varon simply laughs, eyes still trained on the bottle. Somehow, he scares me more at the moment than the thought of Amelda. 

"I had my first drink when I was eight years old, Raphael. I think I can handle an odd beer or two." 

"You were too young then, as well." 

"Fuck off, Raph." Varon's voice is suddenly deadly soft. "I was 14 when I was placed in an _adult_ prison, found guilty of a crime I didn't commit. I wasn't legally old enough then either, was I?" He is mocking me, but he has opened a door, and it takes him a second to catch on. "Shit." 

"Dartz said something about that once, that you were put in jail for starting some fire?" Dartz had however never said anything about the type of facility that Varon had been placed in, and I had always been stupid enough to think that it was sort of young offenders correctional facility. 

"You know as well as I do that Dartz started the fire, so don't play with me." He practically hisses the words, and I realise I've made a mistake in pretending otherwise. But neither of us had known that until Dartz chose to reveal it during his last duel with Yami, so what had happened to the others that had apparently been arrested along side Varon? 

"It was a slip of the tongue," I lie uneasily. I doubt Varon believes me for even a fraction of a second. How in the world do I rescue this situation? "But you weren't arrested alone, were you?" How about diving head in? 

"Aren't the waves pretty tonight?" Is his response. I blink at him in surprise. 

"Varon?" 

"You're here for the scenery, remember? Only the scenery." There is a note of finality in his voice, and I can only watch helplessly on as takes another sip of his beer. 

Varon returns to staring out across the ocean, and I continue to watch him from the corner of my eye, sipping occasionally from my drink. He seems almost deep in thought, elbows resting against the barrier of the balcony, arms lazily dangling over the edge. The hand that is holding the bottle suddenly loosens, and the bottle falls to the sand below with a muted thud. Curious, I glance down, finding that there are four other bottles already littering the sand. Even though it is lit only by moonlight, it is easy enough to tell that the sand around the beer bottles is wet, and liquid is already starting to seep out of the one that Varon just dropped. 

Confused now, I can only watch as Varon bends down and pops out another bottle from the case at his feet, opening the lid but not yet taking a sip. 

"I don't understand." 

"You're not supposed to." He smiles, but it is bittersweet, and still, he prefers to focus on the bottle in his hands than me. 

"That bottle still had some beer left in it. As did the others." 

"I know." This is not the Varon I am used to. Where is the snarky comeback, the silver tongued insult? 

"Why, Varon?" This time I push gently, keeping my voice soft. I can't afford to make the same mistake twice. He tears his gaze away from the bottle and looks up at me, and there is so much hurt and pain in his eyes that I desperately want to turn away, but find myself frozen. 

"Because I don't think there is anything worse in the world than an empty bottle." He closes his eyes briefly, and I'm freed from the spell they had somehow managed to cast over me. "An empty bottle has served its use, and has no other purpose. And yet, they can remain empty, useless, for years to come, simply existing in the same state without ever being of a significance or importance ever again. Empty bottles are simply chucked aside, no longer relevant or needed." 

He suddenly looks so young, so _damaged_ that I'm at a loss for words. He can't look at me now, instead letting brown bangs fall over his eyes, shielding them. For an eternal second, he looks so much like Eric that I can't hear my thoughts above the pounding of my heart, but as part of my mind takes note of the slight shivers that are running through Varon's body, I force the thought of my dead younger brother far away. 

At the moment, Varon is more important. 

And I find another piece of myself. 

"But even if you leave something in the bottle, the end result is still the same, isn't it?" Abandoned. Trash. 

"Yeah, but at least there is still a pretence of a reason for its existence." His words come out rough, choked. 

"Varon …" 

"Tell me, Raphael. Why did you join Doom?" The swing in topic catches me by surprise, and when Varon looks at me, his eyes are disturbingly emotionless. The question makes me stiffen, but I can hardly expect him to share if I don't do so myself. 

The thing is though, he already knows the answer to his own question. 

"To try and escape the guilt of losing my brother and sister." The words are not easy to say, and I feel a flicker of resentment. 

"And Amelda?" 

"To avenge his younger brother. As you well know." 

"Do you know why I joined?" Of all the places that this current thread of conversation was possibly going, this was the least expected destination. When it appears that he isn't planning to continue unless I show some sort of interest, I nod for him to continue. "Because Dartz asked. That's it. No greater meaning, no story of dedication or love. He simply asked, and I said yes. It was a better proposition than more time spent in isolation." His eyes darken with a hidden emotion, and I start to wonder exactly how many skeletons he has in his closet. 

"You did it to get out of jail. There is nothing wrong with that." 

"You don't understand, Raphael." The problem is more that I do. His grip on the railing strengthens, turning his knuckles white as he studies them, contempt staining his features. 

The contempt is not for me. 

"You don't understand," he echoes quietly. "My purpose was to serve Dartz, to steal souls. That was all I was there for. It changed slightly when Mai joined-" he stumbles slightly over her name, but recovers fairly quickly, "- but any purpose I served there ended quickly as well. Dartz is gone, Raphael, as is any purpose I've ever had. There was nothing before Dartz, and there will be nothing after him. I exist, but without any reason." 

Empty. 

"Varon, you're only 16. You've still got your entire life ahead of you." How can someone so young be so jaded? And yet, Amelda can be exactly the same, although perhaps the slight hope that Amelda has started to cling to is a result of being several years older. "You can go back to school –" 

"No, I can't." His words are hard, angry. "I haven't been to school since I was 12, not really. Any education I have comes from the streets, and somehow I don't think they accept being a master pickpocket or thief as academic substitutes. And I can't get a job, not only because I'm too _stupid_-" the harsh way he spits the word tears at my heart, "- but because I also have a criminal record that includes arson and manslaughter." For a moment, it appears that Varon is finally about to fall apart, but he somehow manages to reign in his emotions just enough. "I'm not like you or Amelda, Raphael. I don't have some aspect of my past to draw on to give me strength or definition. Hell, out of the five pairs of foster parents I had, only one of them was half decent. At Christmas." He smiles slightly at his own joke, dark as it may be. I can't quite see the same humour. "The one person I cared for is long gone, and she was never mine to begin with. She belonged only to her God. So, do you see, Raphael?" 

Yes, I do. I only wish that Varon could see the same thing. 

"I see someone who has suffered far too much, Varon. I see someone who has known pain and anger, hurt and fear. I see someone who loves pizza with every single topping under the sun, his motorbike and the most ugly pair of goggles known to mankind. I see someone who tapes some stupid anime programme each day so he can watch it three hundred times and drive his housemate nuts as a result. I see someone who has to be begged to do the dishes, and then who gloats at having reduced his wonderful, flawless friend to such a state of pathetic being." 

"Gee, all you need to do is add on the bit about me being tall, dark and handsome and how I love long walks on the beach, and this would be the perfect personal ad," Varon interrupts sardonically, but his small smile this time is somewhat genuine, if not confused. "But I don't understand." 

"Your bottle analogy has one fatal flaw." I take the bottle from his hands, shaking it slightly in front of him. "A bottle can be emptied, drained of all its contents, because it is nothing more than a piece of welded glass with no mind or conscious thought of its own. It requires others to shape it, just as it requires others to give it a defined purpose. But you're not a bottle, Varon. No one gets to decide if you get tossed aside or discarded except for you. Either way, you can never possibly be empty, as you are too full of all the little quirks that make you _you_. They're something you can't ever get ride of." 

"That was incredibly sappy. Sickening so," he finally says, and the tension melts to a degree that I'm more used to. He is still doubtful, but at least he knows that I believe what I'm saying, even if he finds it silly. 

"I know." I smirk back at him, only adding to the image that I'm not quite myself, this morning. Varon merely rolls his eyes. 

"And you know how I hate all this philosophical junk. It never really makes any sense in the first place." 

"Yep." 

An easy silence falls over us as a tiny flicker of light flutters across the horizon. We have been here for several hours, and I think we are both emotionally drained. I don't know what I was expecting when I had come to him earlier, but I am sure it was not this. The wine glass is my hand is half full still, yet the wine is bitterly warm when I sip gingerly at it. 

"So I suppose that is why the nightmares are so strong of late. Worry and unease about the future." This time, it is different. I say it as though we are simply having a conversation about the weather, as opposed to delicately trying to interrogate him. He looks over at me with tired exasperation, but he answers, regardless. 

"I suppose." 

"Do you want to talk about them?" An invitation, nothing more. 

"No. Not really." I suppose I had been expecting too much, too fast. Varon is not one to trust easily – none of us are – that I have managed to encourage him to open up as much as he has should be enough. And yet, it feels like some sort of personal failure that he will not let me help him further. "It has nothing to do with you, Raphael." He reads my expression as though it was an open book. "It's just … the nightmares are about some very personal things. Things that even I don't want to acknowledge if I can avoid it. I was in prison for a year, Raphael. And before that, when I wasn't living off the streets, I was being pushed from one foster family to another. Do you know why poor people take on foster children?" he asks, and I'm not quite so dim-witted to know that it is rhetorical. "It's because of the extra 52 dollars a week they get. I was nothing more than a product that was rented out, and I wasn't always returned in the best of conditions." His eyes glaze over for a moment, pain dulling lavender to a lighter blue. And then, just as quickly, he smiles. A wide grin that drives away the sadness and seems more fitting of the Varon I know. "But keep that offer open. I might take you up on it one day." 

"As long as it's not at some god forsaken hour again," I grumble. "Why can't you have issues during the day, like Amelda? Sure, it might mean that more plates will get broken and we'll have to buy glasses by the carton, but at least the hours he keeps are sane." 

"I'm going to pretend that you didn't just suggest I be more like Amelda, but only because I know only a man who is barely awake would make such a stupid comment." 

"Good call." 

The moment becomes awkward, as we've run out of things to say, paths to take. If anything, Varon looks bemused over the fact that I don't know exactly where to go from here, and for that, I'd quite like to kill him. 

"Go to bed, Raphael." He says it with a small, if not slightly sad, smile. I nod. There is nothing left to achieve this morning, and he is right. I am starting to fall asleep on my feet. I'm getting old. 

"Are you going to come in, as well?" I'm not surprised when he shakes his head. 

"Soon. But not quite yet." For a second he looks uncomfortable, before seemingly shrugging it away. "Raphael, I …" He cannot find the words, and a hint of embarrassment appears on his cheeks. 

"I know, Varon. And you're welcome." 

He smirks, shrugs once again and resumes his gaze across the ocean. For the second time this morning I have been officially dismissed. It's a rather anti-climatic ending, but I think we've both had enough of drama in general, so I make no noise of protest as I leave. He ignores me as I return to the lounge, and a small smile quirks at my lips when I notice that sometime during our talk outside, two pillows and a blanket have been placed neatly at the end of the couch. Three videotapes are on the previously clear table, as well as what looks suspiciously like a bottle of Amelda's favourite pop drink. 

We're going to be all right, the three of us. 

I let my gaze drift once more to the figure outside as I head for the stairs. He's abandoned his beer bottle now, and is instead playing with the wine glass I had forgetfully left behind. I can only guess his thoughts as he studies the red liquid, sloshing the wine slightly from side to side. 

And then he drops the glass, and it joins his bottles on the sand below, staining the sand now in red as well as rustic brown. 

The three of us. 

Eventually. 

**Finish**

And, it's finished! I've only been trying to write this fic for weeks, but I've never got past the first paragraph. Last night however I tried writing in first person, and managed to get all but the last few paragraphs done in one sitting. 

A couple of explanations for some of the liberties I took in this fic. I can't remember if the names of Raphael's siblings are ever given, so I chose 'Eric' as the name for his younger brother who looks far too much like a young Varon. Another thing I can't recall is whether an iron clad reason was given for why Varon was sent to prison as well as the goons that were thought to have burnt down the church. Originally I thought it was for the murder of the two gang members he beat up, but if you look closely at the cards he throws down with all the captured souls in them, right before meeting Dartz, both of their faces are on the cards, meaning that they were on the island with the other prisoners. Plus, a couple of the other gang members can be seen in Varon's flashback of his time in prison, so it appears that Varon went to the same prison as them, which makes it possible that he was found guilty of the crime along with them. I'm sure that, after being beaten up by Varon, that the gang would drag him down with them if they got the chance. I just can't see any other reason why Varon would be in the same prison (and lunch room) as them, otherwise. No wonder he ended up in isolation. 

I doubt anyone is going to read this, let alone review. But if you've managed to make it this far, any comments and thoughts would be greatly appreciated! 


End file.
